Your Unwanted Desires
by leesungyeol
Summary: Why would you deny the fact that Sherlock was incapable of loving, or desiring? Why would you ever challenge it? Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Bonjour! I haven't actually written anything in a long time, and I thought maybe just writing down something completely random would help, and here's the outcome! I'm actually quite pleased with this, and I'll continue, and I have a general story line planned out inside my head. It's a bit short but eh. Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated!**

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><p>"I believe you are Dr John Watson, am I correct?"<p>

John Watson looked round, a little surprised that he was being addressed by a total stranger. The man's face was hidden behind the hood of his jacket that was pulled up, over-casting his face rather dramatically. He was soaking wet, the water droplets dripping of his jacket and landing on the floor, leaving a small puddle soaking into the carpet of the bar. John blinked once, letting his eyes wander over him before sitting up straight and staying calm. It was hard for John not to be a little, well, creeped out by this sudden appearance that apparently wanted to speak to _him_.

"Yes," John Watson said steadily.

The hooded man hesitated for a moment, looking around to briefly observe his surroundings before turning back to John. "Is your _friend_, Sherlock Holmes, here?"

John frowned. This was probably another man who had decided to warn him about the consequences of having anything to do with Sherlock. Many people had approached him in the past, telling to him stay away from the consulting detective, but he always shunned them away, ignoring their advice. Sure, John had struggled with many dangerous things that included Sherlock Holmes, such as the pool scene with Moriarty, but he was safe. He was still alive.

He had survived.

"Why do you ask?" John said, turning back to his drink that sat in front of him, untouched. He had left Sherlock at 221b, irritated at him yet again. This time it was concerning his lack of caution after the Moriarty incident – John would've thought that he would've gained some self-consciousness after that rather tragic event. Sherlock shot the bomb, for God's sake. John had managed to jump into the pool, grabbing Sherlock by the waist as he fell in, but there were still many bruises and scars that were left upon their skin; but even after his recovery he still thought it would be a good idea to jump straight back into his well-known detective work.

"At least have a _break_, Sherlock, for God's sake, you just went through a serious event, aren't you in shock?" John commented, his patience growing thinner as he walked into Sherlock lying upon the sofa with his eyes shut and his finger-tips pressed together in his usual thinking pose.

"Shock? Why would I be in shock? I've recovered, I'm fine."

"Oh my god – you know, you never do learn, do you? You never do… Oh, forget it. I'm going out for a drink." And he grabbed his jacket and left the flat in a state of anger, not wanting to communicate with anybody for the next two hours before he had finally overcome his anger at his flatmate. Why did Sherlock always do that? Why did he always make John furious, even though he hadn't _done_ anything on purpose?

The hooded man paused again, thinking about his reply, and answered, "Because he is in danger. I will not be seeing you, or your friend again; but you will be seeing _my_ friend. It might take a while, but she will come. You are both in danger. Take this as a warning, Dr John Watson; keep safe. Don't trust any man, or any woman you meet. Be aware."

And with those words, the strange and unfamiliar man in the hooded raincoat left the pub in a hurry, not losing his composure or mystery as he pushed the doors open and disappeared into the cold, dark and wet night of London.

John Watson stared after him, unsure what to make of the words that he had just heard; in the end he looked back down, picked up his drink and gushed it down his throat.

He was probably just drunk, he decided.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! My chapters will probably get longer as the story progresses, but this was all I could cough up for now, so I hope you like it! Thank you to my reviewers, you're lovely!**

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><p>It was three am when Sherlock heard the front door slam shut and a pair of footsteps trudge up the stairs rather clumsily. Sherlock had not moved out of his position for two hours now; he had been consistent in plucking his violin strings to a tune that he had made up off the spot. John was drunk – it wasn't a difficult deduction.<p>

John staggered into the room, flopping down on the armchair with bags under his eyes and his whole body drooping. Sherlock did not comment on how ill he looked, and instead simply said, "You're back."

The elder man laughed, obviously amused by Sherlock's remark. "Great deduction there," he slurred, "must've taken you a lot of effort, huh?"

Sherlock grinned patronisingly at John's attempts of sarcasm, as he plucked a few more un-meaningful notes at his violin. They did not say anything to each other for a while, and John shuffled in his chair a few times, obviously not as drunk as Sherlock had suspected.

"Anything of interest to report?" Sherlock aske, finally placing down his violin and looking straight at John with those cold eyes he always managed to hold. Even after the pool incident, he still had managed to maintain his rather sociopathic personality, but there were those tense moments that didn't happen before; he took a softer approach to John, even if he managed to snap and play at those annoying tendencies. He was a different person, and maybe he really did have a heart.

John had a brief flashback to the hooded man who had warned him of the great dangers his companion would be in, and her, but he shook his head and stood up, wanting to end the conversation quickly. It was late. He was tired. He'd be a little hangover in the morning but he'd be fine.

Hopefully.

Sherlock did not say anything as John staggered out of the room, and only shut his eyes and pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully.

It was going to be a long night.

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><p>A gun shot, somebody had heard. One single scream and then silence. The silence had scared the witness so much they had refused to get up and investigate what had occurred for a solid half an hour.<p>

An unfamiliar face lying dead upon the floor of one of the many large abandoned houses in London. Beside him lay a single photograph, old and creased yet the content was still visible – the poor victim stood beside a notably shorter yet extremely attractive woman, who was no older than twenty-five and had a distinct shine to her face. They were smiling, arms entwined around each other, the look of lovers amongst their faces. The blood of the dead man had made splotches on the corner of the photograph, and a gunshot had ripped open the man's chest unpleasantly.

His facial expression was terrified. Sheer, utter terror. Whoever had murdered him must have been petrifying; it was clear that he was helpless in his situation.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was rather fascinated by the photograph.

He could not make anything of it, however, other than the rather simple conclusion that the woman had killed him. An ex-lover who had been so enraged by his actions she fought to seek some sort of horrible revenge? Possible. The case was much like Jennifer Wilson's death, putting aside the fact that the method of execution was markedly different. An abandoned house, some sort of evidence left behind, the case was pretty much identical. Of course, the murderer was bound to be different.

The detective did not call in Sherlock until a week after the death; he wanted to investigate for himself. It wasn't pleasant, but then again his job wasn't exactly enjoyable – he had grown accustomed to the blood and gun shots and sobbing of weak and helpless sufferers. Lestrade had attempted finger print traces on the photograph but the only person who had touched it was the dead man himself; it was also suggested that there were glove prints on the picture, but it was hard to tell who's glove prints exactly.

Finding the woman was an even harder process. The photograph was old, ten years old at least, and comparing the dead man and the man in the photograph, they barely looked alike; the dead man had grown wrinkles and his face indicated he was becoming old and weary, and there was no doubt the woman would have grown older, too.

After a week of giving up and failing, Lestrade finally called in Sherlock, requesting he come over immediately. Sherlock did not hesitate; he had been summoned for one case only since the meeting with Moriarty – which was a fairly simple one – and he was eager to get his brain back into gear. As the detective briefly described the case to Sherlock over the phone, he nodded once, told him he'd be on his way and threw on his jacket and scarf.

"Where are you going?" John asked sulkily as he walked into the sitting room. "Did Lestrade offer a case -"

"Yes, he did, and it's quite an interesting one," Sherlock said, "care to join me?"

"Well –"

"Brilliant." Sherlock said, and without another word he rushed down the stairs to grab a taxi.

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><p><strong>So I don't know if you guys would get the reference to one of the stories in the Holmes books with this case I've mentioned, and I might have fixed up a few things but I'll leave you to ponder on that ;)<strong>


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